Meg Tuite

Toilet by Thomas Larsen

Myopic Vision

You enrapt in the quality of your erection
seeing double me from behind
who knows how many beers

the bar we got smashed in
every weekend
searching for splinters of a migrating us
my sticky fingers tattooed oily handprints
spread against the bathroom tile
our pants at our ankles

as I read scrawled messages
groping for a sign

‘Don’t kiss leeches,
their heads will lodge inside you.’

‘It takes two to wanker
what one can’t.’

‘Your mom sucked my dad off.’

‘There’s a fly in your mouth, or is that just my zipper.’

I was as weary
as the clutching bags
harnessed like bruises
under the floating
aqueous of my eyes

I was no stranger to the stench
of unflushed urinals
and panic

We readjusted our clothes
reached for each other
a location we couldn’t locate
face to face

“I’ll see you out there,” you said.

I punched you somewhere
like I didn’t care
and nodded

I staggered toward the mirror
pulled out purple lipstick from my pocket
my blurred reflection stretched
through glass in front of me

in loopy letters
I covered the ruddy, swollen face
that stared back at me

and all I could see
was a tinier her
lost inside the words

‘Exile is everywhere.’

More about Meg Tuite and Thomas Larsen

Mather Schneider

His Fans Always Know What They Like by Jim Wittenberg

 

MAKING SENSE IS OLD NEWS

Some poets prefer nonsense
because it is easier to
pass off as genius.
The young protest society
while sucking its tit,
rebellion only a game
within protected boundaries,
and in the end most works
are nothing to
awaken, frighten, excite, but only
pastel mobiles or
balloon animals.
Sometimes people will say if it makes sense
it is boring
and common,
while really it is the most unusual thing
you will see in almost any
poetry magazine, which prefer
dream idiocy
like the drooling of infants,
harmless,
without message
and with a diffused spirit
which can’t quite speak
but delights the corpulent matrons.

More about Jim Wittenberg

Bill Gainer

Can and Cone by Aleathia Drehmer

A Note from Someone I Once Knew

He sent pictures
recovered from the fire
that took his sister.

I thanked him
politely
touched the delete button
softly

left his memories
where they
belong.

More about Bill Gainer and Aleathia Drehmer

Leah Angstman

Creation Myth by Jim Wittenberg

If Sydney Carton hadn’t gone to the guillotine,

I might not have been a punk rocker;
I might have believed in love or god or goodness
more than politics.

If Jekyll had prevailed,
I might have known more from science;
the bigwigs could point fingers,
but the yays could outvote the nays.

If Mr. Rochester had married Blanche,
I might have understood how the hierarchy works;
we orphans had no real chance in fairytales
against the monarchies, aristocracies,
democracies, atrocities, two cities.

If Valjean had only told the truth
a little sooner and not to Marius,
or if Javert had given up the chase
before it consumed him,
I might not have been an atheist.

It might be a far, far worse thing I do
than I had ever done.

More about Leah Angstman and Jim Wittenberg

Michael Grover

Spraypainted Reminder by Kristin Fouquet

Writing Viciously

To write viciously
Cleaning the mind of words
To scratch on the page with a pen
Ink like blood
Scratched on bleached white flesh
Words tattooed on flesh
Is to speak your mind
Is to not want the other person
To see what you’re writing about them
Because it’s too fucking honest
Is in another state of mind
Consciousness
Is to not give a fuck
About the asskissers anymore
None of that shit is Poetic
Is to be terrified
That you might not write enough

More about Kristin Fouquet